


i’ve got my eyes on you

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Concussions, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Kidnapping, Let’s Just Not Touch Geralt’s Horse, Minor Injuries, Or His Bard, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In retrospect, it was Geralt’s fault for letting Jaskier out of his sight in the first place. Having already proven to have a talent for trouble, leaving Jaskier unattended on a job was a potentially perilous idea.Still. When Geralt said “go wait somewhere safe” he really didn’t mean“go get yourself kidnapped”,damn it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 425





	i’ve got my eyes on you

In Geralt’s complete defense, the risks of leaving Jaskier unattended — of which past experience had proven were many — _really_ paled in comparison to a Devourer attack.

Rather, an attack by _multiple_ Devourers, at the same bloody time, with the tenacity of a pack of wild wolves. The flesh-craving beasts showed little interest in a Witcher’s mutated blood. They wanted human flesh, and human alone. A reign of terror stretching on for weeks before Geralt happened upon the poor mining village in the mountains made that clear enough. People could no longer venture from their homes without risk of being torn to bits by a sulking monster. Geralt’s arrival was a blessing to them. Jaskier’s presence — for, having hit a creative dry spell, he’d been following Geralt for the last few weeks, to “fan the flames of inspiration” — was just convenient. 

Geralt never liked using the bard as bait. This had nothing to do with any moral qualms; any time Jaskier involved himself in a kill, things got complicated. He simple had a talent for getting in the way. Trouble was drawn to him like a magnet; rather than avoid it, the idiot almost seemed to invite it. Geralt tried to keep Jaskier out of the way during jobs because bailing him out of danger was more trouble than any amount of coin was worth.

That, and he’d rather _not_ see his companion be mauled or swallowed whole by a monster. 

Sometimes, however, Jaskier’s presence during a job could actually be useful. Like it or not, Geralt had to put him to work.

“This isn’t my _first_ time playing irresistibly seductive meat-sack, you know,” huffed the meat-sack in question, carefully fastening his lute to a pack strung along Roach’s side. When Jaskier looked up at Geralt, his eyes glittered. Whatever thrill he got from being in mortal peril, it was probably worrying. “Practically used to it by now. Could make it a profession. Thank the gods I’m here, too, or what else would you have done? Picked up a nice, juicy steak from the market, and dressed it up like a toddler?”

Geralt snorted, unsheathing a dagger from his belt. It was a small, silver-bladed thing — better for throwing than stabbing, though it could be useful at close range. The hilt was almost too small for his hands. In Jaskier’s, it fit perfectly.

“Only if you need it,” he said. Jaskier gripped the blade, eyes wide with fascination, before nodding and tucking it into his own belt. “Quick slashes. If you have to stab, stab deep.”

Of course, Jaskier couldn’t fight, and he certainly didn’t stand a chance against a monster… but at least he wouldn’t be completely helpless.

So, Jaskier was sent on ahead, and did what he did best — played the oblivious fool. Only when he’d blustered along the mountainside for about ten minutes, leading Roach along as the Witcher silently trailed them both, did their plan show signs of success. In the distance, a few rocks shifted. Pebbles rolled down the mountainside. The faint trill of birdsong went quiet.

Jaskier had been humming to himself, but his voice cut off abruptly. His head raised; he glanced around. That was all he had time to do before a blur suddenly shot out of the cave, launching itself at him.

And another, and another — more than Geralt expected.

In a few swift bounds, he was in the middle of the fray, cutting Devourers down in midair. This was just enough time for the bait to make his escape. With the battle begun, Jaskier leapt on top of Roach and sped off — “somewhere safe”, Geralt had told him.

So maybe Geralt was the fool, for assuming the hapless bard could look after himself. At any rate, he trusted Roach to keep Jaskier out of trouble; the horse always had more sense than he did, anyhow. 

An hour, maybe, or less — that’s how long it took for Geralt, covered in Devourer blood and a few new scratches, to follow the trail his horse and companion left, only to come up empty handed. Not being able to hear Jaskier’s annoying caterwaul was the first sign of trouble. Coming across a lute in the bushes, smashed and abandoned, was the second.

Picking up the remnants of the familiar instrument, Geralt’s hands tightened around the wood; he sighed through his nose, barely able to restrain his own frustration.

Served him right for letting Jaskier near his bloody horse… and letting them both out of his sight.

Witcher senses were better honed for tracking than even the most astute hunter. It also helped that the bandits didn’t bother to cover their tracks well. The left a trail of broken twigs, snapped branches, and footprints behind them. However much of a head start the group — Geralt counted five sets of footprints, maybe six — had on him, it didn’t take long to track them down.

Even so, it took long enough. Too long.

He could smell the blood before the noises reached his ears. Perhaps the senses hit at the same time, and he just didn’t register; as soon as that metallic tang hit his nose, all-too-familiar, Geralt saw red. Blood meant nothing on its own, but this blood held a familiar scent — he’d recognize it anywhere. It was as familiar to him as that annoying voice, or that _smirk_ any time Jaskier said something he thought was particularly funny. Blood could belong to anyone, but Jaskier’s blood was _his_ , and Geralt could smell a lot of it.

Blood, and noise, and shouting — not Jaskier’s voice, but a stranger’s rough tone, spitting venom in a language Geralt faintly recognizes. A horse’s frustrated wail. Sharpening blades. And underneath it all… a strangled whimper.

Geralt found the bandits’ campsite.

As for whatever happened at the campsite… well, he couldn’t be held responsible.

By the time the last of the thieves took off running into the forest, stumbling over himself in horror, the bandits’ camp was utterly quiet. Before his body hit the tree, the big one had been making an awful lot of noise. So was the quick one, when he hissed at Geralt and tried to draw his sword; thankfully, Geralt was quicker. Now, in the silence, with nothing but his heavy breathing as he came back to awareness, Geralt could see _everything_.

Roach was unharmed, tied to a tree. She stomped her feet as Geralt came closer, as if applauding his quick work… but Geralt’s attention turned in a second, from her to the other side of the clearing. Silence reigned there as well, and it was unnerving. 

Jaskier was never silent. Jaskier didn’t know _how_ to be silent. 

The figure slumped against the base of the tree, chest bound with rope and head bowed, did not make a sound.

The stench of blood grew overwhelming the closer Geralt got. He had to force himself not to focus on it. Instead, he honed in on Jaskier’s heart, beating a steady rhythm in his chest. Not faltering, not stuttering — he was alive, then. Unconsciously, a sigh of relief escaped Geralt, loud in the silent woods.

Then he saw the blood staining a head of dark hair, trailing down Jaskier’s jaw.

“Shit.” Immediately, he dropped to one knee, hand finding his companion’s shoulder. The battered captive’s face scrunched you in pain when Geralt gripped it. “Jaskier. Hey! _Jaskier.”_ Unwilling to hurt him any further, Geralt shook his companion lightly. “Wake up.”

It was just enough — or maybe the pain from Geralt’s touch pulled him back into wakefulness. Jaskier stirred, head sluggishly rolling on his shoulders. For a moment, he struggled to lift it, as though his skull were filled with lead rather than gray matter. When he finally managed, he blinked sluggishly up at Geralt, pupils blown wide. Concussion, then, Geralt thought, and had to bite back another curse.

“Ah _hah_ — the mighty Witcher!” Jaskier’s head fell back like a doll’s; still, he offered Geralt a wide grin. His teeth were stained with blood, from the busted corner of his lip. “Knew you’d come for me. It was only a matter of time. Caught about half that fight, I think. Just half. Til you threw that one lad down the hill.”

Was it any surprise that even half-senseless, Jaskier still didn’t know how to shut up? Geralt just took it as a good sign that he was talking. While the bard blathered on, he busied himself checking Jaskier over for further injuries. His shoulder was probably dislocated; he’d have some colorful bruises in the morning; there were a few deep scratches along his face and bare forearms, like he’d been dragged through brush…

“Mmm. Geralt. Hey.” Jaskier’s movement was sudden — like a marionette unable to control his own limbs, his arm raised, landing heavily on Geralt’s shoulder. When Geralt looked up, Jaskier’s head was lolling to the side. He seemed to be putting in a valiant effort to stay awake. Half opened eyes remained trained on Geralt, warm with an emotion Geralt could not name, but left him feeling immensely guilty. He should have gotten here sooner. He shouldn’t have let Jaskier out of his sight in the first place.

“Look,” said Jaskier — and, very deliberately, nodded towards the thug still crumpled at the base of a nearby tree. The tree’s trunk had a dent in it. Geralt wished he’d thrown him harder. “In the pockets,” insisted Jaskier, giving Geralt a weak push of encouragement.

Bemused, Geralt made his way over; hoisting the thug’s body up by the back of his jacket, he shook him out for any spare bits. A shower of gold pieces greeted him, along with a pair of rings… and a silver-bladed dagger, stained with blood. Geralt lifted the familiar blade, frowning at it. When his gaze turned to Jaskier again, a grin, bleary but proud, greeted him.

“Jus’ like you said,” Jaskier slurred, then let out a dry crackle of laughter. “I stabbed ‘im deep. And they did _not_ appreciate that, let me tell you —“

“Damn it, Jaskier,” Geralt muttered, hand tightening around the blade.

Yet another mistake to tally for the day. Giving Jaskier a weapon was supposed to keep him out of trouble, not damn him deeper.

Without bothering to clean it off, Geralt rounded on Jaskier, blade clutched in his hands. Jaskier’s unfocused gaze tracked his approach with obvious effort. However hard he was trying to stay awake, he was fighting a losing battle. Even so, not a flicker of fear crossed Jaskier’s face at the sight of a hulking Witcher, advancing with a blade in hand.

Geralt cut Jaskier’s bonds in a few quick strokes. As soon as he was no longer bound to the tree, Jaskier slumped forward. It took Geralt’s quickest reflexes to lurch sideways, catching him before he could hit the ground. A dead weight in his arms, Jaskier let out a small moan.

“What is it?” Geralt demanded. As he shifted the injured man into an easier position, Jaskier inhaled sharply, face twisting up in pain. Another groan sounded through clenched teeth, but a second later Jaskier forced a strained smile.

“Kicked me in the chest — more than once.”

Geralt didn’t need to test the statement any further. As gently as he was capable of being, he eased Jaskier back against the tree. Broken ribs would be more of a headache than all of Jaskier’s other injuries combined, but hopefully he didn’t shatter so easily. Human bodies were so fragile; Geralt saw it every day, of course, in the remains of men torn apart by monsters. Seeing it firsthand was different. Seeing Jaskier, of all people, wounded and in pain… something in Geralt’s chest was drawn tight, like a clenched fist, and the more his companion swallowed back sounds of pain, the tighter it got.

“Better get you up, then,” he muttered. Jaskier nodded, face still screwed up. A long moment passed before his hand tightened on Geralt’s shoulder, and it took yet another moment before he managed to hoist himself upright.

Finding his feet was another challenge. Geralt did his best to offer support without brutalizing Jaskier’s injuries further. No sooner did he pull himself up, however, than Jaskier began to teeter. When his gaze slipped out of focus, Geralt’s arm twined around him. He caught him just as Jaskier’s knees began to buckle.

A yell shattered the illusion of quiet around them, ripping through Jaskier’s body like a physical attack. As fresh pain rippled through his chest, he shoved away from Geralt, who released him without protest. For a moment, it seemed certain that Jaskier would topple. His breathing heavy, each gasp an effort that nearly knocked him sideways, he finally managed to find his feet. Wide eyed, he gazed at Geralt, twisting a protective arm around his chest.

“I’m — I’m okay.” Jaskier put a hand up. “I’m fine. But next time — next time I fall, Geralt, don’t bother catching me.”

Geralt arched an eyebrow. In response, Jaskier shook his head. “I can manage on my own.”

And to his credit, he did. He managed to get on Roach, at least, and the horse carried him back the rest of the way. Jaskier didn’t lose consciousness once, no matter how his head lolled or his senses drifted. Geralt didn’t mind the slurred ramblings, weaving their way through utter nonsense. Only when Jaskier went silent did he worry. Each time, he looked up to find his friend fading, blue eyes half-shut, head falling against his shoulder. Geralt gave a bruising pinch to the flesh of his arm, and Jaskier awoke again.

The nearest inn was a night’s ride from their campsite, and it was getting dark already. By the time they made it back, there seemed little sense going any further, especially with Jaskier in his state. He fell into his bed as soon as Geralt had it laid out on the ground, and did not have the energy to raise his head, even when Geralt offered him a sip of much-needed water.

“‘M fine,” Jaskier muttered. His muted tone suggested he was anything but; Geralt wouldn’t argue, though, if rest was really what Jaskier needed. 

“We need to set your shoulder,” he remarked, keeping his voice low for Jaskier’s benefit. “And clean the blood from your head. That wound ought to be bandaged.”

Jaskier nodded along slowly, as thought everything Geralt was saying made perfect sense. His eyes were closed, expression unchanging, so however much he really understood was anyone’s guess. Frowning, Geralt took the liberty of wetting a cloth himself. Hesitating for just long enough to wonder which decisions in his life brought him to this point — to caring so deeply for someone so easily breakable, so human — he set the cloth against Jaskier’s bloodied face. As the grime was sponged away, Jaskier could not help but sigh in relief.

“That’s the stuff,” he muttered. “All I need. Just… _rest,_ Geralt? Can we? Is that okay?”

Geralt considered him for a moment. “Yes, Jaskier. We can rest awhile.”

This was all he needed to hear. Jaskier smiled, setting his head back down on his pack once more; as his eyes drifted shut, Geralt fought off an instinctive flash of worry. Hand tightening around the damp cloth, he brought it back to Jaskier’s face, and continued cleaning the remnants of that bloody encounter.

Next time they faced down monsters, he might think twice about letting Jaskier out of his sight… but no matter what trouble he fell into, Geralt would always be there to pull him out.


End file.
